“I know where it is, for heaven’s sake. What planet do you think I’m from?” It was a good question, given how she looked. “I’m Emma, by the way.” And suddenly he realized who she was. Lady Emma Beauchamp Montague. Her father was a viscount. She owned one of the most avant-garde galleries in Chelsea, in New York. He had read about her, but never met her before.
“Theo.” He shook her hand, and she swept him along, and the next thing he knew, he was on the sidewalk, climbing into a cab with her, while she gave the driver a fashionable address, and turned to chat with Theo again. She talked a million miles an hour, and was very funny, and had him laughing uncontrollably by the time they got out of the cab. He had no idea what he was doing there, and found himself in a palatial house with taxidermy everywhere, including a stuffed lion you practically had to crawl over in the powder room. There were several hundred people, many of whom spoke German, and every European nationality seemed to be represented, along with a large contingent of Americans, and she knew them all. She spent the evening introducing Theo to everyone, and kept him close at hand, until she whispered to him after two hours and asked if he wanted to go back to the hotel and smoke a joint with her. He’d been ready to leave anyway, and the invitation to go back to her room with her definitely had some appeal.
They shared a cab again, and she was chatting animatedly as they walked through the lobby, and he followed her to her room. She opened the door, and before she could get the joint out to offer it to him, she crushed her mouth on his, expertly undid his belt buckle, and unzipped his pants, and was on her knees ministering to him energetically with excellent results, and the next thing he knew, they were on the bed, having passionate sex, and everything but Emma was forgotten. He had somehow managed to get a condom on before making love to her, and for the next hour they had sex in every position imaginable until they both lay spent in a tangle of their clothes, and she grinned at him like a mischievous elf in his arms. She was the most amazing girl he had ever met.
“Two rules,” she said before he could even catch his breath, as he lay next to her, “I never fall in love, and we don’t have to see each other again if we don’t want to. No obligations, no tawdry romance, no broken hearts. We just have fun whenever we see each other. And you’re awfully good in bed,” she said as he laughed at her.
“Do you pick up strange men in hotel lobbies all the time?” He had never met anyone like her, or so unabashedly sexual.
“Are you strange? What fun! You actually seemed quite normal a little while ago,” she teased him.
“I am,” he assured her, although he wasn’t sure the same was true of her.
“And I only pick men up when they’re as unbearably handsome as you are. Why haven’t I ever met you before? Do you come to New York?”
“I haven’t been in a long time, and this is my first art fair.” He named the gallery he was showing with, from New York.
“Oh dear, serious stuff. You must be very good. I have a booth down the way from you. You’ll have to come and see it. And I want to see your work too.” She seemed interested in him.
“It’s very classical. You might not like it,” he said modestly, and she rolled her eyes.
“Please don’t be insecure, it’s so boring.” He spent the night with her, and went to see her booth the next day. She showed wild edgy work by famous conceptual artists at high prices, and although she admitted his work wasn’t her cup of tea, she was very impressed by it, and she recognized that he had an enormous talent and told him so.
“You’ll be very famous one day,” she predicted seriously, glanced at his bio, and saw the last name. “Ah…that explains it. But you’re better than he is, you know. Your technique is very strong.” And then she laughed as she said it, and whispered to him, “In other areas too. Excellent style.”
They went to a party together again that night, and made love in her room afterward, and she flew back to New York the next day. It didn’t seem likely that he’d see her again, but there had been no pretense, no promises, and no attachment. It was just good fun, and the best thing that could have happened to distract him from Natasha, whom he hadn’t seen again at the fair, but for those few days with Emma he didn’t care. She sent him a text message from the cab on the way to the airport, as he was checking out of the hotel. “Thanx for the great fux, Em.” He laughed when he saw it. The art fair had been interesting, and even more exciting, both his paintings had sold, at respectable prices. He had a lot to be pleased about when he went home. And when he got back, he walked into his studio, and there she was again, with those gentle eyes, the lips that seemed about to speak to him, and the soft halo of blond hair. She looked just the way he’d seen her in London, and he turned the easel around so he didn’t have to see her. He needed a break from the intensity of his obsession, and Emma had been just what the doctor ordered. He had had a great time with her.
He told Gabriel and his mother about the art fair the next day, when he had lunch with them, and left out the escapade with Emma Beauchamp Montague. He told them that both his paintings had sold, and they were pleased for him. And the following day Gabriel invited him to come and see a gallery with him in Cannes. It was one of the few serious galleries in the South of France. And he had promised to look at an artist for their gallery that his daughter was interested in representing.
“I should work,” Theo said, feeling guilty about taking an afternoon off to go with him, but he didn’t want to go back to work on the portrait of Natasha either. It was too unnerving having just seen her again.
“It’ll do you good to get some air,” Gabriel told him, and he enjoyed his company, so they drove in the old Morgan Gabriel kept in St. Paul de Vence to use when he was there. He was much more stylish than Lorenzo had ever been. They talked about the art fair again on the way, and were both disappointed by the work of the artist Marie-Claude had sent him to see. His work was too commercial, and better for the tourists than a serious gallery in Paris. But the girl who ran the gallery was a pretty blonde. Theo noticed her and smiled at her, and then they stopped at her desk to chat for a minute. He picked up her card and thought about calling her sometime, and then decided to take a page from Emma’s book, and spoke to her casually.
“I don’t suppose you’d have dinner with me sometime?” he asked far more cautiously than Emma would have, and she smiled at the question.
“Are you a gallerist or an artist?”
“That gentleman is a gallerist,” he said, pointing to Gabriel. “I’m an artist.”
“That would be a no, then,” she said pleasantly, and he looked at her in amusement. He hadn’t expected that response.
“You have something against artists?”
“Yes, I have a fatal attraction to them. I was even married to one. And in my experience, they’re all crazy and addicted to drama. I’ve given up drama. I’m divorced, I have a five-year-old daughter, and I want to enjoy a peaceful life. That means no artists.”